Our voices gust with accusations until the storm abates. We crawl beneath our goose-warm quilt, face away in the dark without familiar rasps and exhalations. The morning a pale pink. We guard our space of silence.

I pull on wool against the cold, then spy the bird, so small. In meager light the doubt is there. “Stripe above the eyes, blue gray feathers!”

We crowd the narrow window, shoulders touching. “Arusty belly–I mean a rusty breast!” “How it spirals headfirst down the tree! Hear its little tin horn?” Goats beard lichen trails the branches of the apple tree.

The nuthatch darts from tree to feeder. “You’d think its bill too thin to grasp those bulky seeds.” I feel your fleecy robe, scent lime from your shampoo.

You knew the wind would take a toll. You knew to fill the feeder. I watch you spritz our wood stove window, pile on locust logs such hulks they barely fit.

You bear me a mug of green tea, steam rising. Outside a bold flush spreads in the east.